


mean

by feistycadavers



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Fisting, Belly Kink, Dacryphilia, Desperation Play, Edgeplay, Enemas, Humiliation, Kink Discovery, M/M, Masochism, Painplay, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 15:38:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17983883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistycadavers/pseuds/feistycadavers
Summary: “Dare I ask what is going on?” John asks Brian, still holding onto his guitar case. He’s not putting it down on the carpet if there’s even a slight possibility there’s bodily fluids on it.“Enema party,” Brian says, as if that explains everything.or, john discovers the torture aspect of enemas.





	mean

**Author's Note:**

> the google doc name for this is "i hate myself and that's ok"
> 
> this is john lowery's fault and i will accept no responsibility.
> 
> so. today i got this back issue of total guitar from 2002 with john on the cover. and in it john mentions during manson afterparties they occasionally had Enema Nights, which was used as a proper noun, in which there was a holding contest to see which girl could hold an enema the longest, and brian warner is a sick pervert. anyway i was then physically forced at gunpoint to write this. so yes i wrote this in 5 hours and there may be errors and it's likely not my cleanest work but goddammit it had to be done
> 
> also julia said that if anybody could write this and make it halfway decent it'd be me, which is such a goddamn good compliment and i don't know if i'll ever get over it
> 
> two side notes: there's no scat play here so if that's not your jam no worries. and it's set in late holy wood era because john's black bangs are cute.
> 
> extra special dedication to ray for this because after the week she's had she deserves some of her favorite john things.
> 
> anyway title from the song by nicole dollanganger aka a big john/brian song did i mention i have a 50+ song playlist about them. and yes i did reference it in the fic text judge me

John has walked in on a lot of very weird things happening in his hotel room before. Everything from the snorting of questionable substances, to his bed being used for what appeared to be a baptism using bodily fluids, to Twiggy lighting his pubic hair on fire. This one’s new.

John just wants to play guitar and watch a monster movie. John doesn’t even feel like finding a girl whose tits he can come on. They do these things in John’s room specifically to make his life difficult. John hates being the New Guy. It’s been three years. He’s still the New Guy.

The naked girls isn’t the weird part. There’s four of them, which isn’t weird either. It’s that they’re all sitting, ass to ass, on the edge of a very large bucket. John’s not sure where that’s from. Maybe stolen from a janitor’s closet. _Probably_ stolen from a janitor’s closet. There’s also more people crammed into the room than is within fire regulations, but when has Brian ever cared about fire regulations.

“Close the damn door!” Brian yells, from where he’s standing on a chair, keeping his balance with his hand on the ceiling fan. John reflexively steps the rest of the way in and shuts the door behind him, taking a few hesitant steps towards the circle of inebriated people around these girls. John’s still got his brows furrowed, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Maybe Tom Morello was right about Manson being for real into evil satanic shit, because this looks like a ritual of some sort.

“Dare I ask what is going on?” John asks Brian, still holding onto his guitar case. He’s not putting it down on the carpet if there’s even a slight possibility there’s bodily fluids on it.

“Enema party,” Brian says, as if that explains everything. John looks down at the girls. He can now see the one nearest him has a slightly distended stomach, and her legs are shaking with the exertion of… _oh._ John pinches the bridge of his nose. Brian’s too much of a sadist for his own legal safety, and he’s already got priors in two states.

“Okay, well, I’m gonna be not here then,” John says, grabbing his (still locked, thankfully) suitcase and dragging it off. As he’s leaving, there’s the distinctive noise of liquid hitting the bottom of a container, followed by a lot of yelling. John does not look back over his shoulder.

//

It’s not that John’s a stranger to enemas. He’s done his fair share of cleaning things out before. It’s needed sometimes when you’re sticking stuff in that hole, especially if you’re going any deeper than fingers or a dick can reach.

But that’s it. Just for cleaning out. He’s never done more than the quick flush out before going to Brian’s room for the night.

Goddamn his curiosity.

John’s laying on the couch in Ginger’s hotel room, laying on his side facing the back cushions, under his fur coat for a blanket. Ginger was already out cold when he got here -- he’s on pain meds for his collarbone and has been crashing early -- and John didn’t want to disturb him by stealing the duvet, especially with how firmly tucked into place they are in hotels.

John can’t sleep.

He can hear the occasional fanfare down the hall, a dull roar through the half a dozen walls between what was supposed to be his hotel room and the one he’s currently trying to sleep in.

John hasn’t considered enemas for anything other than a utilitarian purpose. A means to an end. A means to a _clean end_ if you will. John resists rolling his eyes at himself for that joke. At least Ginger thinks he’s funny.

He thinks back to the other room, to the girl who was literally vibrating from how hard she was struggling to keep so much liquid in. Enough to make her look several months pregnant.

John’s hand is curled in front of his stomach. He splays his fingers out over it, the flat expanse between his hips. He sort of wonders what he’d look like if he was so full of water his belly went round too. More importantly, how that would _feel._

John’s dick jerks awake at that thought. Ginger snores. John squeezes his eyes shut. He hates his dick for Doing This at Times Like This. He tries to redirect his mind to something that isn’t arousing. Brian destroying his gear. Brian lighting his pedal rack on fire. Brian stomping on his pedal rack. Brian. Brian’s boots. Brian stepping on John. Brian stepping on John’s dick. Brian stepping on John’s distended stomach, full of water, making his insides cramp up and clench to hold onto the water --

John grumbles to himself, smears his hand down his face. He’s half hard thinking about how much that would _hurt._ Goddamn his stupid masochistic dick. He’s pretty sure that’s not normal.

Then again, Brian makes the exchange of pain seem normal. And Brian’s just as sick as John is.

Maybe it’s worth asking.

John locks himself in Ginger’s bathroom, jerks off thinking about how much Brian would torture him, filling him to the point of overflowing, watching him suffer with the painted grin splitting his face. After he cleans up he flops face first into the couch, asleep the instant he hits it.

//

John is lucky conversations about fucked up kinks to try are easy with Brian.

All he actually had to do was ask Brian what kind of enema equipment he has with him that he used for his so-called Enema Party. Brian’s good at reading people. He’s _especially_ good at reading John.

It did not take long after that for John to find himself naked on all fours on a towel in the hotel room shower. Brian’s still dressed, casual, hanging the enema bag to the shower curtain rod. John watches as he holds the bag again, triple-checks the temperature, the tube running down to where Brian holds the plug end in his other hand. At least, it’s plug shaped enough for John to call it that, for lack of a better term. There’s John’s favorite pink silicone plug sitting on the sink counter.

“It’s kinda lukewarm now,” Brian says. “Might feel a little cool going in but it shouldn’t be so cold it hurts.” Brian kneels down next to John, pops the cap on the lube bottle. “Do you wanna do this part, or should I?”

“I can,” John says, sitting back on his legs and taking the bottle. His hands shake a little. He really has no idea what sort of pain he’s in for here, and a little bit of control feels reassuring. Brian doesn’t physically comfort him, but seems to notice John’s nerves.

“You have your safe word,” Brian reminds him. John nods, slicking up his fingers, reaching behind him. He starts with one finger, but doesn’t take long to add a second. Brian rests his forearms on the edge of the tub, watches John work himself open. “Shouldn’t need more than that,” he says, tucking a lock of black bangs behind John’s ear. “It’s just a plug.”

“Yeah, okay,” John says, nodding. He’s not really that turned on yet, so even with his fingers inside himself, he’s not hard. Maybe it’s the nerves. Maybe it’s the clinical feel of Brian’s gaze, of the medical equipment hanging from the curtain rod. At least Brian’s not wearing gloves. Brian gestures for John to bend down, and he does, pulling his fingers out. Brian grabs a handful of John’s ass, pulls him open. He brings the plug end of the tubing around, drags it through the lube, and gently pushes it in. It’s an easy fit, hardly a stretch for John at this point. Brian has his hand on the flared base, holding it in position as he reaches up to the clamp halfway down the tube.

“I’ll go slow,” Brian says. “Don’t expect me to be gentle, though.”

“Counting on it,” John remarks, his cheek pressed to the towel on the bathtub floor, biting back a grin. Brian smirks. He squeezes the clamp, and the water flows down.

The first rush of water isn’t unfamiliar. John’s used to that. It’s just that it doesn’t stop. It’s a slow, constant flow, and John feels it make its way deeper, around the bend. He reflexively brings a hand to his stomach at the feeling, almost tentacle-like. Brian lets the clamp close again and the water stops.

“Cramp?” Brian asks.

“No,” John says, “just feels weird.”

“Alright,” Brian says. He places his hand on the small of John’s back, fingers tracing little circles. “Tell me when it hurts.”

Brian choses words deliberately. The use of _when_ instead of _if_ is not an accident.

John keeps his hand on his stomach, feeling more water start to fill him. He watches the bag start to flatten at the top as it drains. John can feel it pooling a little, comfortably warm, till a sudden cramp wracks through him. He makes a pained noise, grabs the edge of the bathtub. Brian stops the water, but doesn’t do anything else, just watches him. John’s guts clench.

“That’s pretty impressive,” Brian comments. “That’s probably a third of the bag before you even cramped.” John’s eyes dart over to meet Brian’s, and Brian answers his unasked question. “I intend to get at least three quarters of this bag in your ass.” John shudders at the thought. Brian pinches the clamp and more water rushes into him, another cramp, the sharp ache of his insides shifting to accommodate the volume. John’s hand goes to his stomach again, this time finding his belly curving out between his hip bones where it had been flat before. A jolt of arousal goes through him. He’s seen it with Brian’s cock before, if he fucked into him at just the right angle, prodding at his stomach from the inside.

“Whoa,” John says.

“Do you want to lay on your side?” Brian says. “Might be easier for the second half.”

“Yeah,” John says. He feels the water inside him shift as he turns over, laying on the towel, facing Brian. Brian lets more water flow, and the new angle allows for it to fill him even further, John’s body curling in on itself as he cramps again, crying out. Brian grabs at the plug to keep it from being forced out, holds it firmly in place.

“Hold it,” Brian says, not stopping the water. John sobs once, feeling impossibly full, like Brian couldn’t _force_ another drop in. And yet it flows freely down the tube and into him, distending his belly even further. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, squeezed shut tight. Brian’s other hand is on his side, comforting, but John knows Brian’s getting off on this. If not the enema itself, then seeing John in pain. A tear breaks from his lashes, falls onto the towel beneath him.

“Fuck,” John grits out. He’s never felt pain quite like this. It’s not the same as a stomach ache; it’s not like anything. He cries in earnest, even as Brian is cold and unwavering above him. Just his hand keeping the plug in place and his other hand on John’s ribcage.

“That’s it,” Brian says. “That’s the bag.” John whines when Brian withdraws his touch and gets up, but he isn’t gone for long. He returns with the pink plug, turning it between his fingers, and John’s eyes widen a bit.

“I can’t hold it,” John says, his voice shaking, but Brian doesn’t respond to him verbally. He drops to his knee to reach around John.

“Hold it,” Brian says again, pulling the plug out of John’s ass, and John sobs in embarrassment when he feels a gush of water spill out of him, splatter onto the bathtub floor. Brian plugs him back up just as quickly, the size of the larger pink plug really stretching him open. Brian simply stands back up, crosses his arms, and observes. “You have a safe word,” he reminds John. John nods, sniffling. He’s curled in on himself, black painted nails clutching at his distended stomach. He looks down at it, blinks tears away, and he has to admit: it’s _hot._ And he didn’t really consciously realize it till now, but his cock is hard.

Brian may like his cruel games, but John likes it when it hurts.

In that way, they fit.

John lay helpless in the tub, grabbing a fistful of the towel beneath him, feeling the water leaking out of him. He clenches down on the plug, tries to hold onto it. He cries, the pain wracking his insides, the ache and the stretch of being so fucking _full._

“You do suffer beautifully for me,” Brian’s voice says from above him. “I think I’ll reward you with my fist.”

John grins through a sob, looks up at Brian, his form wavy through the tears.

“Please,” John says weakly.

“Would you like to let that out?” Brian asks. “Let all that water out so I can fill you with my fist instead?” John nods urgently, tears rolling from his eyes, and Brian kneels, offers John his hands. He takes them, and Brian helps him to stand on shaky legs. “Shit,” Brian whispers. John smooths his hand over his belly, rounded from the water. “Yeah, you’ll definitely be seeing that again when I get my hand in there,” Brian says, helping John over the side of the tub and over to the toilet. “Sit, and then take the plug out. I’ll be here while you let it out.” John sniffs, hesitates a moment.

“You’re gonna watch me?” he asks, guts churning with shame.

“Trust me,” Brian says, “you’ll be glad I’m here.”

That might be a threat. And John obeys. He sits on the toilet, struggling to hold it in, tears still coming even as he reaches back to remove the plug. There’s an embarrassing splash as water spills out of him and into the toilet and John sobs in embarrassment, but Brian takes the plug, brushes John’s black bangs out of his face.

“There you go, babe,” Brian says, and John reaches to hook his fingers in Brian’s belt loops, shoves his face into Brian’s shirt and sobs, the burning shame making him shake. This is worse than the cramps, worse than the pain. When the flow stops, John pushes, another humiliating gush of water coming out of him. Brian’s verbally distant, but his touch is comforting, stroking John’s hair as he clings to him. John lets it all go, feeling empty now, looking down at his flat stomach. And his erection, despite the tears and the humiliation and the pain.

“Is that it?” John asks, looking back up at Brian. Brian tucks John’s hair behind his ears, holds his head in his hands.

“How about that,” Brian remarks. “My filthy little John, all clean inside.” John sobs a laugh, smiling even through the tears. “You’ve definitely earned my fist. Come to bed with me.”

Brian gathers the lube bottle, flushes the toilet. John starts to stand, but his legs shake, and he puts his hand on the wall to steady himself. He feels Brian’s eyes on him, and he wipes tears from his face.

“I probably look pathetic,” John says, his voice raw.

“You do,” Brian says. “You would not fucking believe how hard I am right now.” John doesn’t have much of a chance to respond, because Brian grabs him, scoops him up clear off the floor. “And if you try to walk right now you’re going to pass out, and if you’re gonna pass out I want you do to it while I’m fisting you.” John’s head is spinning, barely having time to register the thought that passing out during sex sounds kinda hot, before he’s being dropped onto the bed, turned over, his hips lifted up so he’s on his knees. There’s the shock of cold lube being poured onto his ass, and John starts a bit, but then Brian’s three fingers deep, and fuck, he’s sensitive. John shudders as Brian fingers him open.

“Fuck,” John chokes out. Brian smacks his ass with his free hand, grabs at it, pulls him wider open.

“Think you can take all four fingers already?” Brian asks. Brian’s long, thin fingers. John purrs at the suggestion, far beyond coherent thought, already feeling fucked out despite the fact he hasn’t been fucked at all.

“Please,” John begs. Brian adjusts his hand, and his pinky fits in along the rest, stretching John open even further. He moans, clenching his hands in the pillows. He’s taken Brian’s fist before, deep enough his Spooky Kids tree tattoo was starting to disappear into his asshole (Brian took the photo to prove it, and John’s still not sure how he managed to get that roll of film developed without getting arrested).

“Damn, your cock is sure drooling all over the place,” Brian says, and John purrs as his knuckles sink into him, Brian’s thumb rubbing at the spot behind his balls. “Guess I didn’t clean _all_ the filth out of you. Dirty boy.”

“Your dirty boy,” John moans, pushing back at Brian’s fingers. He hears the lube bottle cap pop open again and Brian slicks more lube into him, onto his hand.

“Yeah, I guess you are mine, huh,” Brian says, pulling his fingers out. “Turn over.” John does, a bit clumsy still, grabbing his legs behind the knees and folding himself in half. Brian brings his hand back, only pausing long enough align his thumb and press in. John whimpers as the widest part of Brian’s palm stretches him open, even as Brian has his thumb tucked in. “C’mon, bear down,” he urges, and John does, Brian pushing against it. There’s a long moment of quiet as Brian pushes, and John’s ass finally gives, the meat of Brian’s thumb slipping in and his fist sinking home, ass tight around his wrist. “Fuck, good boy, you’re so good--”

“Fuck!” John hisses, feeling raw inside, every nerve sensitive and exposed. “Brian, fuck, just,” he stutters out, and Brian starts moving his hand, just sort of rolling his fingers, and John shudders. Brian turns his arm a bit and his knuckles rub into that sweet spot, and John cries out. “More, please,” he begs.

“That’s my whole fucking hand, slut,” Brian says, voice cutting, fucking his fist into John’s ass, opening him up even further. “How much more can you fit in there?” John’s nails dig into his legs as he moans, his cock jerking of its own accord. “Look, you can fucking see it.” John lifts his head, looks down. Sure enough, every time Brian pushes his hand in, John’s flat stomach distends out, right above his cock. John whimpers, falls back into the pillows.

“Gonna come on your fist,” John whines, and Brian brings his hand down hard on his ass, then again on the other side.

“Go on, come on my hand,” Brian says, and John nods, desperate, cock aching, the orgasm rising in his hips. When he comes, he gives a weak cry, sobbing through it as he spills all over himself, his entire body shuddering with it. Brian slows his movements, eventually stilling his fist, slowly letting John stretch to let him out. Ropes of lube string between John’s ass and Brian’s fingers, and Brian smears it into John’s thigh. “God, you’re a fucking disgrace,” Brian says, but even when Brian tries to say it menacingly, John can hear the sweetness in it.

“Fuck, thank you, _fuck,_ ” John pants, letting his legs down. Brian climbs up over him, plants a kiss on his forehead, lubey hand dragging through the mess of come on his chest.

“Even all covered in your own jizz like this,” Brian says, “you’re still filthier on the inside, despite the fact I cleaned you out.”

A compliment, in Brian’s terms.

(John only hopes he doesn’t get invited to any future Enema Parties, or at least that he and Brian can have more private ones.)


End file.
